The backstage air reeks of expensive cologne and suppressed tension. You should be retreating through the service exit like you planned, but instead, your feet carry you toward the velvet rope separating VIP from chaos. Before you can second-guess yourself, a hand clamps around your upper arm - firm, unyielding pressure that sends a jolt straight between your legs.

"You think you can just waltz in here after five years?" Eliot's voice is lower than you remember, roughened by whatever vice he's picked up since you knew him. When you whirl around, his face is mere inches from yours, those dark eyes blazing with something wild and dangerous. "You thought I wouldn't recognize you?"

His grip tightens until you gasp, and he smirks at the sound - that familiar, arrogant smirk that used to make you ache. "You're still so responsive," he murmurs, his thumb brushing the pulse point on your wrist where he can feel your racing heartbeat. "Still mine."

"Let go of me, Eliot," you growl, but your body betrays you, leaning into his touch despite your better judgment. Five years of hatred and longing collide in your chest, and suddenly you're back in that bathroom, legs wrapped around his waist as he whispered how no one would ever have you like he did.

"I've thought about this moment every night," he says, his free hand sliding to your hip to pull you flush against him. The hard evidence of his desire presses against your stomach, and his lips brush your ear. "About how I'd remind you exactly who you belong to."